The Blind Piggy Bank
by Riddelly
Summary: After their success with solving the mystery of the pink crayons, kindergarteners Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are closer than ever. Yet there's a new and more dangerous case on the horizon, and with Greg Lestrade absent and John now occupied by his new friend Sarah, can Sherlock manage to solve it alone? Sequel to "A Study in Tickle Me Pink," kindergarten AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** _Sequel to "A Study in Tickle Me Pink." Since the last story received a bit of harassment for being inaccurate to the British schooling system, I'd like to reestablish here that I AM American, and this is a silly little crack!fic that I have no reason or compulsion to do research for. There will be regional inaccuracies, and though you may feel absolutely free to go ahead and point them out, I am not going to change them, simply because this isn't an important enough work of mine to be concerned with such things. _

_That said, the last story did well enough, and there were multiple reviews asking for a sequel, so I hope you all enjoy this one as well!_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own BBC Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**one.**five

"John, what do you know about money?"

John Watson glanced up from the worksheet across which he'd been scribbling an assortment of numbers, copying down the bold characters that their teacher, Mrs. Hudson, had traced out on the blackboard in sharp white lines. Intent on the figures as he had been—this time, he was quite sure that he had sketched the five facing the right way—it took him a long moment to process Sherlock's words, and longer to identify the motivation behind them.

"Money?" he ended up asking rather stupidly, despite the fact that he knew he should be well aware, at this point, of how Sherlock would judge him for not keeping up with his own sharp brain and tongue. John had no problem with spending the majority of time around the class's resident genius—in fact, he rather enjoyed it—but there was always the slight problem of being expected to keep up with the rapidity of his advanced mind.

"Yes, money. What is it to you? Just something your parents spend?"

"Well..." The answer was yes, of course; John, being six years old, had no reason whatsoever to know a thing about money and its uses. The significance of the thin paper notes had always escaped him—he didn't quite understand what was to be gained through them, when there were much more interesting things to be traded and exchanged.

"Typical." Huffing, Sherlock leaned back in his chair, his own long-completed maths sheet lying askew on the table before him. John spent a few seconds deliberating whether to ask the meaning of the large word poised on the dark-haired boy's lips, then decided that doing so would cause him to appear even slower than Sherlock's treatment had already made him feel. Sighing, he instead turned back to his sheet, and was just preparing himself to try for the tricky swoop of a well-formed 9 when Sherlock's low voice stirred the air once more.

"Sebastian seems to know more."

"Sebastian?" John echoed, his tongue stumbling over the assembly of consonants. It was an unfamiliar name, and his eyes flickered up to trace the path of Sherlock's cool grey gaze, eventually landing upon a wide-eyed boy standing near the front of the room, apparently speaking to Mrs. Hudson in a hushed yet aggravated manner. His lower lip was trembling, and John felt his stomach twist in sympathy. He hadn't been in room 221b long enough to know all the kids, but despite his unfamiliarity with the student apparently named Sebastian, he couldn't help but feel a surge of sympathy for whatever was aggravating him.

"Can't you do anything but repeat? Yes, _Sebastian. _He's our treasurer."

"Trea—I mean, what's that?"

"Never mind, go on and repeat. You sound even stupider otherwise."

John suppressed a cringe, trying to ignore the way that his throat grew bitter at the cruel word thrown in his direction. He knew that Sherlock didn't mean it, just had trouble when no one could properly keep up with him. Of course it would be frustrating. "Sorry, I... I don't know what that is."

"He's like a banker. He keeps track of the class fund... money for field trips, treats, the like. The piggy bank? It's his job to run it."

"I thought Mrs. Hudson took care of the piggy bank."

"Of course she _really _does, but she likes to make us feel involved whenever she can, thinks it'll help with our learning or something of the like. So she lets him count the notes. I'm surprised you haven't noticed—he does it every Monday, at morning circle."

John frowned for a moment, trying to recall which day was Monday, but his consideration was cut off by the sharp sound of Sherlock's chair grating back. His eyes widened, and he observed the reason for the other boy's disturbance an instant later—the slick-haired boy named Sebastian was now crossing the room in shaky strides, straight in Sherlock's direction, while Mrs. Hudson watched with pursed lips from where she stood with her hands clasped around her elbows.

"Sebastian," Sherlock greeted as the treasurer came to a sniveling halt before him. "Something wrong with the bank?"

Apparently oblivious to the slight condescending jeer in the curly-haired boy's tone, Sebastian dipped his chin in a pair of hasty nods, his fingers knotting together. "I... I thought that, since you figured out who was making people sick before, you could help, maybe. I don't know what happened."

"I'm sure you know quite well what happened, or you wouldn't have come to see me. What caused it, now... that's something else entirely."

Sebastian, apparently put off by Sherlock's rudeness, let out a particularly loud sniff, which earned him confused glances from a few of the other students sitting around the room, pencils at their worksheets. He quickly stifled his whimper, then reached forwards and took the edge of Sherlock's sleeve with his fingertips.

"Please, will you help?"

Sherlock exhaled and raised his eyes to the ceiling, jerking his hand away from Sebastian's grip. "How much is gone?"

"How much what?"

"How much _money," _he got out through his teeth, and, this time, John understood his impatience. It seemed that Sebastian was rather slow—not at all the type that he'd make class treasurer, if he were in Mrs. Hudson's place.

"Oh—there wasn't any money missing."

John perked slightly at this, and so did Sherlock, his eyes swiftly narrowing and his words coming at a much sharper pace. "No money missing? Then what's the problem?"

"Its eyes..."

Now Sherlock was the one to reach out, seizing Sebastian by the edge of the collar. Dark curls spilled over his forehead, and he seemed to quiver with intensity, to the point where John nearly stood in an attempt to calm him. The other students, no longer able to ignore the whispered conversation, were beginning to murmur among themselves, and Mrs. Hudson raised her voice at the front of the room, bringing them back together with a clap of her hands.

"Now, does anyone have some numbers that they'd like to show the rest of the class? Sally? Sarah? Andy, what about you?"

The others' attention returned to their numbers, and Sherlock released a breath that John hadn't noticed he was holding. "Its eyes," he repeated in a growl. "Something's wrong with its eyes."

Sebastian nodded several times. "I'll show you—"

"Do. Immediately."

He nodded again, then turned and scampered across the room, to where the fat pink piggy bank was situated on a high counter. Sherlock followed at a more leisurely pace, and glanced over his shoulder after a footstep, one dark eyebrow cocked in a gesture that John rather wondered at the mechanics at.

"Coming?"

It took John a moment to realize that he was the one being talked to; upon that revelation, however, a grin warmed his lips, and he hurried to his feet as an affirmation, leaving his pencil to roll across his half-completed maths work, trailing a thin strand of graphite off of the end of the lopsided number 9 that he'd just been completing.

In a few seconds, they were at the other side of the room, and Sebastian was just pulling the bank down from the shelf, its rosy ceramic form cradled in his thin arms. "Here," he mumbled, apparently paying no heed to the fact that Sherlock was being tailed by another, probably less helpful boy. He tilted the pig's face forwards, and John had to suppress a gasp at the sight there.

Where there had before been two round, beady black eyes painted above the curve of the pig's nose, there was now nothing—nothing but white-flecked scraps of glaze, for the eyes had been scratched entirely away, presumably with an object so sharp that John knew it would never be allowed in the classroom. White lines now crisscrossed the pig's muzzle and forehead, disfiguring its formerly adorable countenance into something gruesome.

"Isn't it awful?" Sebastian whimpered.

"It's... strange," Sherlock acknowledged, extending the tip of one pale finger and tracing the jagged angles of the gashes. "Why would anyone...?"

"That's what _I _was wondering!" Sebastian cried out, his voice this time reaching a volume that earned him a few muffled whispers of _shh _from the closest-situated students.

"Fascinating... most fascinating. Thank you, Sebastian—we'll be able to handle the rest of this on our own, I think."

"Will you be able to figure out who d-did it?"

"Most likely. Go on, now, don't you have maths work to make up?"

Sebastian dragged his sleeve over his nose to muffle another sniffle, and blinked away wavy tears from the corners of his eyes. "Yeah... o-okay. Thank you."

"I'll do what I can."

Sherlock pried more than accepted the piggy bank from Sebastian's quivering grasp, lifting it until they were nose to round pink nose. He contemplated it in this manner as Sebastian returned to his seat, and John folded his arms, watching Sherlock think. It was always quite something to try and see the pale boy's mind work—it was nearly invisible, but there were some physical traces of his exhaustive brain activity: a twitch of his brow, a curl at the edge of his lips, a slow breath. Now, however, he was perfectly still, and it was, by John's count, almost a full minute—a minute was fifty seconds, he was sure it was—before his shoulders, swathed in the dark coat that he refused to take off even in class, fully relaxed.

"See these, John? These aren't just scribbles... these are letters. A message."

_Letters? _This time, John refrained from repeating the word aloud, but instead took it to heart, squinting in an attempt to decipher the characters that Sherlock was now regarding with such triumph on his face. _P... _no, D, that was a D, wasn't it? _D... A... N..._

"Dan?"

"It means something else, of course, it must. But... yes. DAN. A message, presumably—not for Sebastian; he had no idea what it meant."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. He would have told Mrs. Hudson if he were being threatened... he's smart enough for that, if nothing else. No. There's another recipient. Somewhere in the classroom, somewhere nearby... there."

He tilted his head towards the table beside which they were standing. Curious, John's stare lowered to the name card sitting atop the spot nearest to them, letters written across in plain blue marker, a bit shaky from the unadjusted hand of the kindergartener that had laid them out.

_Eddie Van Coon. _

"Eddie Van Coon," John read slowly, scowling at the unfamiliar sound. Perhaps he'd pronounced it wrong. "Eddie Van... Vahn..."

"Van Coon, it's Van Coon," Sherlock muttered, running a hand through his curls as he settled the piggy bank back onto its shelf. "If Sebastian wasn't meant to read it, then Eddie Van Coon was. But if it's for him... then where is he? Perhaps the message didn't only appear today, Sebastian only just bothered to check—maybe it's from yesterday, or even earlier, he hasn't _had _to look at the bank since Monday, and that was three days ago—but why did Eddie Van Coon go home?"

John, immured in Sherlock's questions, was so carefully trying to piece them out that he didn't notice the other boy's departure until he was halfway across the room once more, this time with the apparent goal of reaching Mrs. Hudson. Sighing in frustration, John tripped after, but only managed to reach Sherlock's heels after the brief words with the teacher were over, leaving them both with an expression of yet increased concern and frustration.

"She won't say," Sherlock muttered out of the corner of his mouth as he gripped John by the shoulder of the sleeve and brought him back to their table. "His symptoms aren't released, or something of the like..." At John's uncomprehending expression, he indulged himself in a swift eye roll. "They're keeping it secret. No one is allowed to know if he's sick, or hurt... yes, that message was definitely intended for Eddie Van Coon." Releasing John's shirt, Sherlock stood back, his stare scoping out the classroom, teeth shining in a sharp clench as the gears of his brilliant mind churned and twisted invisibly. "And I intend to find out who sent it."


	2. Chapter 2

**two.**five

It took less than five minutes for John Watson to become completely re-absorbed in his maths work, at which point Sherlock decided there really was no one else who would take the investigation as seriously as he did. He was annoyed, but not surprised; John was good in spirit, not so much in perseverance. Quite simply, there were few of the other kids who would find Sebastian's strange mystery as engaging as he did, and so he dealt no blame to John, instead leaving him where he was and turning his own focus to the enigma at hand.

Letters. Letters that made no sense, though—there was something else here, he knew there was, something that was missing... he tilted his chair onto its back legs, balancing it carefully so as not to topple backwards and earn a reprimand from Mrs. Hudson as well as chaos in the classroom environment that was already just barely docile enough for him to think properly in. There were letters, scratched onto the eyes of the bank... but only a single phrase. If each character was meant to correspond to others—well, there were practically infinite three-letter words in the English language that it could represent, not even taking into account the other phrases that could be indicated by the then-revealed letters... or perhaps it was none of those at all, but instead a portion of a word, or even a name, Dan, Daniel, Danielle...

Sherlock let out a muffled hiss of frustration, which, thankfully, nobody seemed to notice. There _had _to be something else he could do. If he couldn't talk to Eddie Van Coon...

_...Who else couldn't he talk to?_

The thought came to him in a brief flash, and he held onto it tentatively for an instant, aware of how weak it was yet not willing to let it go. If coded letters were necessary to communicate to Eddie... codes were part of something bigger, not just casual interaction between two people—unless those two people were close friends, and someone who was responsible for Eddie staying home from school wouldn't be, most likely, though Sherlock still allowed it as a possibility in a back corner of his mind, suppressed by the larger, more likely idea. It seemed far more plausible on all levels that this was part of a larger scheme, and the mere thought of that was enough to elevate the pulse within his thin wrists, so that each of his breaths was constrained, forced into steadiness.

There was something more going on here, which meant that Eddie Van Coon surely wasn't the only one who had been put in danger by it. There had to be someone else. Someone else who had been sent home...

His eyes, scraping swiftly over the many tousled heads that the room contained, noted two absences: Greg Lestrade and Brian Lukis. Greg, he knew practically without thinking, there wasn't a chance of; he could only be sick, for the boy was so utterly obsessed with crime monitoring in the classroom that he would never be involved in what appeared to be such a dangerous ring, himself. The other, though, Brian Lukis... Brian was more promising. Sherlock's memory fed him the information that he was a chubby, perpetually nervous-looking boy, one who seemed to spend most of his time scribbling things in a journal despite the fact that he still wrote his Rs backwards. Aside from these external attributes, he could think of nothing—a likely candidate, then, if he was mysterious enough to serve as a question mark even to Sherlock Holmes.

It was just as he reached this conclusion that the bell rang, releasing them from the room. Sherlock's thin lips curled into a grin as Mrs. Hudson's voice raised above the rest of the class, calling them together.

"You did a _wonderful _job today, everyone! I'm very proud of you. Now, tomorrow we're going to do some more work on reading, alright? Remember to bring your books, and we'll see if we can get into chapter three. If any of you dears need your bus number, come right up; I have them all right here. Have a wonderful afternoon, children!"

Checking that John was distracted by trying to finish up his last two maths problems—_six and three, _Sherlock noted silently, rather irritated by the other boy's apparent inability to comprehend simple addition—he slipped over to the cubbies lining the wall, gravitating not towards his own, but rather that marked with the name of Brian Lukis, distinct with its backwards R. It was empty of a backpack or lunch sack, but a stack of crumpled papers were still arranged inside, unfortunately without the addition of his strange little journal, which Sherlock would have been overjoyed to get his hands on.

The flurry of activity around him was going to brief, he knew. He had to take what chances he had, and not allow the thought of being caught hamper his movements. His hands moved quicker than his doubts, sifting through the stack of papers in as casual of a manner as he could manage. Not for the first time, he found himself feeling quite thankful that Greg was absent, as the overly nosy boy would doubtless be on Sherlock's case if he caught even a whiff of him looking through another boy's things. The rest of them, however, poor ignorant things, were altogether too occupied by their own doings to pay him any mind, and he was able to relax and concentrate properly on the task at hand.

Symbols. Any symbols—his eyes raked down paper after paper, to no avail. Scribbled drawings, a few poorly graded spelling tests, one maths sheet that was ripped down the middle—

_There._

There it was—not on any of the papers, but instead scratched into the back of the cubby itself, the letters glaring out in the sharp relief of pale splinters. DAN, gouged into wood with such precision that only an incredibly sharp tool could have done it—unmistakably the same one that had been used on the piggy bank, a knife or other unsafe weapon that should by no means have been kept in school.

Delightful.

John went home ignorant of Sherlock's new lead, and remained immersed in such a lack of knowledge the next morning, when he assumed his usual position beside Sherlock at their table. The dark-haired boy was, if possible, a bit twitchier than usual, with his fingers clasping and unclasping, his curls bouncing with each shift of his coated shoulders, and his eyes, if John wasn't mistaken, flitting obsessively between the seats of Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis.

"Are you okay?" he asked, a bit subdued by the maniacal energy.

Sherlock's only response was to raise a single eyebrow, an action that never failed I baffle John; he simply couldn't grasp how it was done.

Mrs. Hudson's voice drew them all together before another inquiry could be mustered, however. "Good morning, students! We're going to have a bit of a change today."

A sea of groans and confusion immediately combated the previously calm air. Mrs. Hudson raised her hand for quiet, and John, whose own lips had been parted in a soft noise of protest, quieted along with the rest of them.

"Now, change is good every once in a while! Though it's very good for you to be working on a schedule—does anyone remember what _schedule _means?"

A girl that John didn't know raised her hand, stretching until it looked like it hurt.

"Yes, Sarah?" Mrs. Hudson acknowledged.

"It's something that tells you what to do every day," Sarah supplied, her light brown ponytail bobbing with her words. She was smart, John acknowledged with wide eyes. Almost as smart as Sherlock—he couldn't have said what a _schedule _was.

"That's exactly right, dear. Schedules are very good for us, but it's also good to understand _change. _So, instead of having morning circle today, we're going to have _afternoon _circle. For now, we're all going to get into our reading groups. And, since we all like change, we're going to switch those around, too!"

John didn't vocally protest this time, but a slow dryness began to grow under his tongue. His reading group had been with Sherlock, Greg, and Sally—perhaps not the best company, but they were his friends, at least, and they were all _smart. _He didn't want to be put in one of the groups that didn't know what they were doing until Mrs. Hudson came around... he'd heard there were some kids who couldn't even sound out the word _dog. _He was no prodigy, himself, but he could at least read most of the words in their books, if he worked hard enough, and he was even starting to be able to write real stories, with some help. If Mrs. Hudson put him with people who didn't know—

His worrying, within instants, proved itself to be without reason. For he had barely allowed the thought out of his mind before she was announcing the groups, and he felt his stomach swerve for a reason entirely different from disappointment when his name was reached.

"...John, you'll be with Sarah. Oh—" Mrs. Hudson's lips pursed. "You're meant to be with Eddie and Brian, as well, but it looks like they're both out sick again... would you rather join another group?"

"No—no, it's okay," John found himself getting out, perhaps just a bit too loudly. He heard a small noise of what might have been annoyance from Sherlock, seated beside him. The dark-haired boy now had his arms folded and his chin high, no longer trembling with that odd excess energy but instead stock-still—yet John didn't notice. He got to work with Sarah! _Smart Sarah, _who had just answered the question, who knew what... what was the word—_schedule, _what "schedule" meant. He was excited enough to barely hear the other names as Mrs. Hudson listed them off, and then, once she told them to go find their groups, he was on his feet, hurrying across the room with the plastic cover of his book slipping under his palms, to where Sarah stood behind her desk, blue eyes bright with eagerness and a friendly smile on her face.

"Hi, John!" she greeted. John tried to smile, but found that his face was a bit warm.

"Hi," he said, adjusting his book. There was no reason to be nervous, he reminded himself a bit impatiently. He spent time with Sherlock constantly, and he had to be at least as smart as Sarah seemed. "I, um... I'm probably not as good a reader as you, but—"

"That's okay," she brushed off easily. "I can help you. That's what reading group is for, right?"

"I guess so."

Sarah gestured to the chair beside her, vacated by its previous occupant, who had presumably gone to join their own reading group. John, realizing after the awkward suspension of a full second that he was meant to sit in it, settled down in a rather ungainly stumble, placing his book in front of him and adjusting it carefully to line up with the edge of the desk. The cover, featuring a cartoonish drawing of a floppy-eared dog, stared up at him, and he still felt that strange heat around his face.

"So, you read the first two chapters, right?" Sarah checked.

John was utterly mortified to shake his head. "No, I... I came here from a different class... so I only know the first chapter."

"Oh, that's fine!" she laughed. "The second one's really easy, here." She flipped the book open and turned to the fourth page, where the next chapter began. John hadn't even started it, due to its rather staggering length of six pages; he could get through it, he knew, but it would probably take a long time. As Sarah ran her finger along the edges of the words, however, beginning to pronounce them, a slow confidence began to build inside of him, a gradual understanding that came much more easily when bolstered by the warmth of her friendliness.

He didn't notice Sherlock's icy glare piercing into his shoulder blades for the remainder of reading time, and perhaps that was for the better.


	3. Chapter 3

**three.**five

Reading time left John Watson with a barely-disguisable grin on his face and an inexplicable glow of triumph somewhere in his belly. As the hour crept by, he had been paying less and less attention to the text, and more and more attention to Sarah; now, as Mrs. Hudson announced that it was time for them to wrap up their work and return to the group as a whole, he launched immediately towards the opportunity of talking to her properly, rather than through the tandem of paragraphs traded back and forth.

"You're a really good reader," he told her—probably not for the first time, but it was worth it for the giggle and blush, along with the quick tuck of her dark blonde hair behind one ear. Her light eyes remained cast down, though a swift flashing blink might have disguised a glance in John's direction, and he allowed himself to believe that it had.

"Thanks, I've been learning for a long time. My older sister showed me how to," she offered by way of shy explanation. "You're really good, too, John—you just need to practice a little more."

"I'd like to practice if you would help me out." He sensed the words spill out of his mouth with no reasoning behind them, and felt immediately as though the best feeling in the world would be to disappear through the floor beneath him. It was silly—he wasn't doing anything rude, and there wasn't a strange thing about asking her for help, since she was so skilled. And yet a blush burned across his cheeks even more intensely than that on hers, and he decided that there was no use trying to stifle it, though a hand still rose over his face in a halfhearted attempt.

"Of course I would! You can come to my house sometime," she offered promptly. "Mummy makes really yummy biscuits, so we can eat them and practice reading!"

Her eager offer almost overwhelmed him. Biscuits, reading, Sarah—it sounded perfect. So very perfect that, after a hasty collection of nods and murmured _yes, please_s, he was light on his feet as he walked back over to his own table, where Sherlock sat with a spectacular scowl in place, his slender fingers drumming rapidly across the tabletop.

"Who was that?" he inquired immediately, the words hitting John with all the cold intensity of pebbles.

"You know," he replied. For Sherlock surely did—he observed enough to be very aware of who was who in the class, and someone as smart as Sarah was sure to have caught his notice.

"...Sarah Sawyer," he sighed, somehow managing to make the name sound like a complexity of bad words. "I don't like her."

"Why not?" John felt his voice rising, fueled by a snarl of heat in his chest that the pure unfairness of Sherlock's words released. "She's brilliant!"

"She's a show-off."

"So are you!"

"Boys!" Mrs. Hudson trilled, and John sank back into his seat with a grumble, voice dying into nothing. He wished he could understand what it was about Sherlock that was so _moody—_the dark-haired boy was a good friend, he really was, and yet his usually brilliant logic often seemed to fall into these bitter swoops that John could only find himself despising. It wasn't fair that someone so wonderful should also be so cruel, and yet it appeared to be true—it wasn't the only enigmatic contradiction that Sherlock presented, either. The boy was a mystery, and as intriguing as John often found him, there were other times—times like now—where he'd prefer not to acknowledge his existence, replacing his chilly company instead with the warmth of someone like Sarah.

"You all did a very good job today," Mrs. Hudson announced, summoning John's grudging attention back towards the front of the room. "In fact, you've been doing a great job since the very beginning of the school year! Congratulations to all of you on the fantastic reading skills that you're learning—I'm sure your parents will be very impressed. Now, there's a word for you: can anyone tell me what _impressed _means?"

Sarah's hand immediately shot up into the air, and, with a surge of glee, so did John's—_impressed _was one of the super-hard words that he'd come across today, and one that Sarah had taught him, of course. It was tricky to spell, but he thought he could probably do that, if he only remembered where to put all of the Rs and Ss—he _was _good at spelling, as Sarah and Mrs. Hudson had told him, as well as his former kindergarten teacher and even the school nurse, Ella. Sherlock, a voice in the back of his mind commented, had never said a word of praise about it.

"Yes, John?" Mrs. Hudson decided, a look of pleasant surprise curling over her kind features. She was pleasantly surprised, clearly—and he hadn't even told her what it meant yet.

"_Impressed _is when someone's really proud, and they're happy about something that someone else did," he declared boldly, his voice perhaps a bit louder than the room's close quarters dictated. Of course, he deserved to call out the answer clearly—he was impressed with himself, after all. That made sense, right? Sarah had never said that _impressed _could only be about other people—though, he thought with a thrill at the base of his lungs, he was certainly impressed with her, as well.

"That's exactly it. Perfect job, John," Mrs. Hudson beamed. He grinned back, and his eyes locked with Sarah's across the room—she flashed a quick thumbs-up sign at him, and he felt a new rush of heat tumble over his features, one that elicited a slight scoff from Sherlock, behind him.

John's ears were tingling, but he forced himself not to reply to the negative noise emerging from his tablemate. There was no reason for Sherlock to be so _mean; _there really wasn't. Maybe, he decided, he would talk to Mrs. Hudson about moving to a different table, maybe even Sarah's—he could still be friends with Sherlock, of course, but the other boy seemed to be proving more of a bad influence than anything else at this point.

Something in the back of John's mind still nudged, urging him to think of everything else—of, for instance, the mysterious incident with Sebastian and the piggy bank, and how the two of them were going to solve that mystery together, just as they had with the pink crayons.

But Sherlock was _mean. _There was no denying that. So John forced himself not to feel any trace of sentiment towards his cold-hearted friend, but instead focus on the warmth that Sarah brought, and just what her mother's biscuits might taste like.

* * *

Lunchtime ensued, and Sherlock had much more important things to worry about than John Watson.

Whatever the other boy's silly occupations might be, Sherlock was still wholly focused on the case at hand—the mystery of the piggy bank's scratched-out eyes, of Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis. He knew that he was getting closer, closer to figuring out the code, yet there was something he was still missing. And the key to figuring it out, he was sure, was one of his absolute least favorite methods of eradicating evidence: he would have to talk to people.

Still, he wouldn't let a little annoyance get in the way of as important an issue as this. So, when he and John settled down at their usual table for lunch, he wasted no time in eating, but instead stood up instantly, ignoring the confused protests from his companion. "Go sit with Sarah, if you don't want to be lonely," he found himself saying—perhaps it was unfair, but Sarah was really the most ridiculous, pompous little thing, and he couldn't help being angry at John for his clear infatuation with her. People could be in _danger, _if he was right about the code directed towards Eddie and Brian, but John didn't want to crack the case—instead, he preferred fluttery conversation with ditzy girls, something that Sherlock could only sneer at.

He scanned the lunchroom, full of long blue tables, each of which seated about fifteen boys and girls. This was a convergence of all the kindergarten classes, not just Mrs. Hudson's, so it may well be his only chance, along with recess, of talking to some of the others. This in mind, he pinpointed the first unfamiliar table—it contained a large gaggle of girls, most with platinum blonde hair and a few others a graceful brunette, all giggling and chatting in such a simpering way that it made him nauseous.

"Hello," he murmured, drawing up to the end. The closest girl, a dark one with eyes the color of coffee beans, turned to stare at him, her mouth parted slightly in an expression that his stomach churned at. No matter if these were only five- and six-year-olds; he was disgusted by their lack of simple etiquette—such as, perhaps, greeting him in return.

"Do you have any friends that have gone home?" he went on to question when it became clear that she wouldn't introduce herself, or even ask who he was. She frowned, finally closing up her mouth, and glanced up, as if the ceiling would present the information that she was seeking. Sherlock resisted the urge to tap his fingers impatiently on the table, already well aware that he had the unwanted attention of more than half of the girls due to his odd interrogation, and chose instead to dive his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, where they curled around heavy handfuls of fabric, twisting in aggravation.

"Um... who are you?" she finally asked.

Sherlock felt rather as though he was on the verge of screaming. "Sherlock Holmes, but that doesn't matter. I need to know if any of your friends have gone home. This is very urgent."

"Urgent?" she repeated.

"Important. Just _tell _me."

"There was Soo Lin," a sandy-haired wisp near the back of the row spoke up. She leaned in, and Sherlock noted that she was missing one of her front teeth. A smear of purple jam from her sandwich was smeared over her freckled cheek. "She _thought _she was sick."

"Oh, yeah!" the dark-eyed girl agreed, then nodded vigorously. "Soo Lin wanted to go home, but she wasn't really sick, so she's at the nurse now."

"Soo Lin," Sherlock repeated, testing the unfamiliar syllables. A girl's name, certainly—that set her apart from Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis, at least. Perhaps not who he was looking for, if she didn't follow the pattern, yet they had offered a good lead—the nurse's office would be the perfect place to check. Even if he didn't find anyone he was looking for there, he could perhaps ask Ella whether she knew anything—his elder brother's connections throughout the school made it much easier for him to talk to the staff than it was for the rest of the kindergarteners.

He ought to thank them for their help, he realized after his brain had gone through this nanosecond-long path of decision, much as he hated the idea of it—nothing required him to smile, though, and so he kept his lips downturned and set as he nodded his gratitude towards the girls.

"Thank you. I'll try to find her. Do you know her last name, by any chance?"

"Yao!" another girl, this one indistinguishable from the masses, piped up. "Soo Lin Yao."

Excellent. He likely wouldn't need the surname, but it could do nothing but assist him. "You've been very helpful," he promised the girls, who looked immensely delighted by his words, despite the fact that they surely had no idea what they were helping _with. _Resisting the urge to sniff with disdain, Sherlock turned on his heel, and was halfway to the door before he remembered John—John, who it would be, despite everything, cruel not to take along.

Sherlock let out a huff of irritation, and instants later he was back at his own table, gripping John's shoulder and whispering tightly in his ear—"Come on, quick. I think I have a lead."


	4. Chapter 4

**four.**five

"A lead?" John repeated as he hurried after the receding back of his fleet-footed friend, brow furrowed in confusion. He hadn't been much thinking about their so-called case—in fact, he'd rather settled down to his lunch, and was far from keen on being interrupted in the middle of it. Sherlock, however, was relentless. The intensity of his movements was one that John knew quite well, and he was aware even as he protested that there was no way out, that the best thing to do was simply go along with whatever the dark-haired boy's ideas were—leave the thinking to Sherlock; that was usually the best approach, as he had learned over time.

"Yes, a _lead, _are you deaf? There's another girl, Soo Lin Yao. She asked to go home, but wasn't allowed to... it isn't much, but she could have received the threats as well, sought out refuge and been denied. She should be in the nurse's office now, so if we can get there, we'll be well on our way to cracking the case."

John only understood about a good half of the words pouring forth, but they were enough to convince him that their situation was indeed a critical one. The mystery of the piggy bank, though it had been a bit obscured by the fascinating new presence of Sarah Sawyer, was still significant, and it would be absurd to try and drop it now, tempted as he was.

They reached the nurse's office in less than a minute, assisted by Sherlock's excellent knowledge of the hallways, and John was breathing heavily as they skidded to a halt outside of it, though his companion seemed unfazed. Shoving a dark curl out of his pale eyes, Sherlock rapped quickly on the wooden door, which was soon after opened by the tall, familiar figure of Ella Thompson, the nurse who had reassigned John to Mrs. Hudson's room after his bad dodge-ball experience with his former classmates.

"Sherlock? And John Watson," she greeted, clearly puzzled. "Are you two doing alright?"

"We need to speak to Soo Lin Yao," Sherlock cut across before John got the chance to reply, or even so much as ask how and why Ella seemed so familiar with Sherlock. "I heard that she's in here."

"Are you a friend of Soo Lin's?"

"Of a sort. We may know why she's feeling badly, and it's mandatory that we get the chance to discuss it with her."

Ella's brows lifted at the word _mandatory, _and the way that Sherlock forced out the tight, clipped syllables was apparently enough to persuade her into agreement. "Very well. Only for five minutes, though; she's feeling quite down."

"If she feels so horribly, perhaps you should allow her to go home as she wishes," Sherlock muttered under his breath, but ducked under Ella's arm all the same. John, after shooting an apologetic half-smile in the nurse's direction, followed suit, and soon they were inside Ella's spacious, sun-stained quarters, bare save the delicate form of a dark-haired girl crouched on the bed nearest the desk.

"Soo Lin?" Sherlock questioned, taking a step closer. She glanced up, fright clear in the flicker of her eyes and tremble of her lips, and her fingers shook, nearly dropping the steaming teacup clutched between them, before she processed the unfamiliar face across from her.

"Who are you?" she breathed. Her voice was a faint stream, barely audible from where John stood less than a meter away.

"Sherlock Holmes. I'm here to ask you about the threats."

"The... threats?" Her throat moved in a quick, nervous swallow, and she set the teacup down, shaking her head until her previously silky hair was a mussed tangle. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do, you _do. _Are you one of them? The gang? It is more than one person; it must be. You are the victim of their symbols—the letters—but what do they mean? D A N, yes? Was it the same for you?"

"D... A... N," Soo Lin repeated slowly. John was well aware that her hesitance came from anything but ignorance; she knew perfectly well what she was saying, but also remained aware that, in telling, she would put herself in almost greater danger—_danger..._

"Danger," Soo Lin finally sighed, and John's chest clenched with her timing, how it coincided with his own stabbing revelation. Sherlock's lips traced the syllables, and a triumphant smirk drew itself over his own lips—not one of understanding, but rather satisfaction; he had long understood the significance of the scratches. Soo Lin had only confirmed what he was already aware of.

"Yes. Danger," he purred. "Those who see the scratches... and they must be former members of the gang itself, of course, to realize the significance—know that their time is running out. A group that turns on itself. How beautifully wretched... what do they do, then? These _bullies? _Do they hurt? Steal?"

Soo Lin's eyes flickered on the second word. "Steal," she acknowledged, her tone quieter than ever, so that John had to strain his ears to make out any sound at all. "They steal... money. Lunch money. When you see the DAN—they put it somewhere that they know you'll be by, and only you'll know what it means—when you see it, it means that they're going to get you next. Maybe for a day, or maybe for lots of days, but you won't get lunch... it means they want you to go. And people will go, because they want lunch—there's lunch at home, but they need to pretend to be sick... it's so _mean." _

"And yet you were one of them, to have received the signal now."

Sherlock's interrogation was merciless, but had a profound enough effect on Soo Lin; she nodded miserably, tears swelling in her dark eyes. "Yes. They're going to take mine... and I'm already hungry..."

"Thank you." Sherlock was already turning, the next words tossed over his shoulder as an afterthought, and John scrambled in his wake, flashing another apologetic half-grin in the direction of the still-trembling Soo Lin. "And your classroom? We should be able to take the money from your cubby, if we get there soon enough."

"Mrs. Shan."

"Good."

John nearly tripped over himself in an effort to follow the burst of speed that Sherlock then pulled on—it was rapider than any that he had yet forced himself into, and two pairs of frantic feet slammed against the linoleum as they zigzagged through the hallway, tracing a path that apparently only Sherlock himself knew all the twists of. John, for one, had never heard of Mrs. Shan, but he knew that the other boy had a much more accurate knowledge of the building's workings, thanks to the constant supply of information from his older brother, and wasn't about to question the route that they now raced along.

"Mrs. Shan's, Mrs. Shan's—here—no, _there," _Sherlock snarled, and lifted one hand, index finger extended in furious indication of the dark figure slipping out of a classroom only a few doors ahead of them. The unmistakable ringing of change assaulted John's ears as his eyes locked with the dark ones of the thief, and anger reared in his chest, to match Sherlock's—this had to be one of the gang, and he was escaping, with Soo Lin's money! Much as John's legs ached, he didn't hesitate at all before pulling on another burst of speed, bearing down on the long-legged robber who darted before them, seemingly without effort.

"Come on, come _on," _Sherlock spat, managing to stay several paces ahead of John and closer to the boy they were pursuing. His lungs tensed, visible from behind in the clench of his shoulders, and his next word was bellowed, thundering through the air. _"Stop!"_

The amplified syllable, however, seemed to serve only as means for the boy to move faster. In seconds, he had turned a corner and was on the stairs—the stairs to the upper levels, the senior years' classrooms, where kindergarteners such as Sherlock and John—and, presumably, the boy—were anywhere but permitted. John stumbled to a halt, but Sherlock was undeterred, and managed to reach the second step before the cheery ambience of an approaching crowd of students and teacher began to rise around the corner. Sweat sprang to John's palms, and Sherlock stumbled partway up, turning with his eyes wild and his jaw pulled into an expression of pure desperation. There was no way he could reach the next level without being spotted, and wandering the halls without permission was already a major offense; if he got caught trying to reach the other floors, he could be suspended.

Before John could so much as process the significance of the choice, Sherlock was on the ground before him, chest heaving, having leapt the steps down. "Closet," he hissed, and his fingers were then twisted in John's shirtfront; instants later, he was being pulled around and into a sudden curtain of darkness, a door tilting shut before him. Sherlock had pulled them both into a janitor's closet—and just in time, judging by the sea of voices and footsteps that then flowed by, amassing in the space that they had occupied heartbeats before.

"So _close," _Sherlock breathed out of the corner of his mouth, "so close...

"We were almost caught!"

"Shh!" A hand forced itself over John's mouth, muffling his squeak of protest. "He got away... we have to be ready for our next chance, understand? We have to be _ready!" _

John could only shake his head, his heart still shuddering with the volume of its pounding.

* * *

"A circus!" John was exclaiming an hour later, all thoughts of their near-suspension encounter fully erased from his mind. "I've never been to a circus before!"

Sherlock felt ready to scream with the frustration built up inside of him. They had been so close to saving Soo Lin's money, and John at least seemed able to feel some amount of the ridicule of their failure, but now, as it would appear, it was eclipsed in Mrs. Hudson's announcement of a field trip—the first one so far this year, and to some absurd traveling _circus. _Sherlock was well aware that John's only focus was the time he would get to spend with Sarah Sawyer, who he had chosen as his safety partner—the two of them, in other words, would remain in unshakable contact with each other throughout the duration of the day-long trip, to maintain that neither got _lost; _convenient for Mrs. Hudson, perhaps, who could only keep track of so many children, but horribly bothersome for Sherlock, who was well aware that the trip posed a threat as well as a fun experience.

A day out, after all, meant lunch out. And lunch out meant extra money—extra money for the still-anonymous gang to steal. Brian Lukis, Eddie Van Coon, and Soo Lin Yao had all suffered for it, and Sherlock was sure that, even now, one of his classmates was shivering under the weight of their own cold sweat—someone else, he could guess with relative certainty, had received the sign. Whether they were among Mrs. Hudson's students or a different kindergarten class, for all five were going on the trip, they were out there somewhere—and, without the help of John, it would be up to Sherlock alone to make sure that they ate. An empty stomach could result in endless bad effects, for the venture as a whole as well as the single sufferer, and the only way to prevent such a catastrophe was to unveil who was truly behind it all, to prevent whatever devastation was meant to occur—and, as it would seem, to do it without the help of the friend whom he had come to rely on.

Sherlock clenched his teeth, electing not to respond to John's bright-intentioned words. He had no reason to share what his own plans were. If John wished to be useless about the matter, then so be it—he didn't need a distracted assistant, anyways. He had managed perfectly well before the other boy came along, and he should be able to do just fine now.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N **_Last chapter. I might throw out a third part, so let me know if you'd like to see a kindergarten au of "The Great Game."_

* * *

**five.**five

"Now, remember, everyone, we need to be careful and _stay together! _Keep your eye on the group at all times, and make sure you never let go of your partner's hand!" Mrs. Hudson, after making sure that every child had properly processed her words, turned to Sherlock with a smile that trembled with stress around the edges. "Except for you, of course, dear. Though I would still like you to stay in my line of sight."

Sherlock dipped his chin in a quick nod, suppressing a smirk. He had special permission—courtesy of his parents' influence at the school—to wander around the circus as he pleased; it hadn't taken more than a mention of the potential danger to Mycroft to secure his freedom, and he fully intended to utilize it, though now, of course, he'd promise Mrs. Hudson whatever it would take to keep her quiet. It was almost easier, this way, than if he had ended up with John as his partner; there would be no one to drag him down, and Mrs. Hudson would feel no compulsion whatsoever to keep a bothersome eye on him.

The circus was contained inside a relatively small, dark building, and the hundred or so kindergarteners and ten chaperones that filled it now were more than a crowd. The perfect place for a criminal to hide. Most of the kids were excited by the unusual surroundings, which were most memorable for the sharp whiff of something near cinnamon in the air along with the bright colors of the display positioned in the center of the stage ahead of them. It was chiefly crafted of wood and cloth, spun into intricate structures which Sherlock assumed would be operated and moved across by the performers, who were due any minute; lunch would be immediately afterwards, so he knew that he would have to take advantage of the time when they were onstage to do what work he had to.

"Hey—Sherlock—"

John. He stiffened instinctively, and pulled a scowl onto his face even before he turned to glower upon the shorter boy, whose hand, sure enough, was clasped with a distracted Sarah Sawyer's. John's face was currently darkened with something that unmistakably conveyed worry, and he twisted a bit on his feet, a nervous pivot that Sherlock recognized as characteristic.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

"I was just wondering... um, I forgot my lunch money, and—" He looked away for half a second, the next words coming out in a rush. "Can I borrow some from you?"

Sherlock's fingers flew without thinking to the pocket of his dark grey coat, brushing against the felt lining of the pocket. Contained inside was his credit card—well, his parents', more accurately, but they never bothered to keep any cash around the house, and knew that he was responsible enough to be trusted with the card for the brief duration of the field trip; it was less of a hassle for them, in any case, than the quarter hour that it would take Mrs. Holmes to pack a lunch, and they didn't seem to listen or care when Sherlock said that he was fine—better, in fact—without eating at all.

But John knew that Sherlock wouldn't be hungry. And that was, most likely, why he'd been the one to ask about it. Contradicting possibilities curled around the edges of Sherlock's mind, before he finally decided that there was nothing much to be lost—there was hardly much money contained on the card, and if he let John go hungry, it would render him just as cruel as those who he was on the lookout for.

"Fine. Be careful with it." He pressed the plastic rectangle into John's palm and turned swiftly away before he could so much as be rewarded with a _thank you; _John was left staring open-mouthed as Sherlock whisked into the crowd once more, carried aloft on his more important intentions.

"He seems a little rude," Sarah murmured, drawing John from the brief reverie that had crystallized over him. He blinked and turned to her—she smiled a bit, then looked away, adjusting her hand's grip on his. "But he must be nice, if he's your friend."

"He's nice," John half-lied. "He gave me money, anyways." At least, he _thought _the strange object in his hand was money—he could recall seeing his parents using it once or twice on occasion, but it was still a bit bizarre. He hoped that the food vendors would know how to use it, for he certainly didn't.

"That's good! It would be so sad if you didn't get to eat."

It was true. Just like, a nagging part of John's thoughts reminded him brutally, it was sad for the current victim of the strange, letter-carving gang—the gang that, despite whatever Sherlock thought, he certainly hadn't forgotten about. He felt bad about it, yes—but this was a _field trip, _and he couldn't be expected to remain on duty when he was meant to be enjoying himself.

"When do you think the show will start?" he asked her to fill the space, beginning to take a couple of steps closer to the stage as a gap in the crowd opened. She hurried after him, and he suppressed a smile as her fingers tightened around his wrist.

"Really soon, I think! Mrs. Hudson said that they would right after we came... but it's been a long time already..."

"Yeah," John agreed, but the word was numb, departed from his lips with no genuine thought fueling it. The truth was that he'd barely heard Sarah's words, let alone processed them—instead, his eyes had turned towards a stirring in the swathes of people, taking the form of an unmistakable thin figure in a long, dark coat. Sherlock was nearby—very nearby; it was odd for him to stay in such a place for so long a time. Was he keeping an eye on John and Sarah purposefully? John felt his eyes narrow, but Sarah, thankfully, didn't notice; she was too busy craning her neck to try and see above a group of taller boys in front of them.

"Do you think we can move a little closer?" she asked, almost shyly. "I'm sorry, but... I can't really see."

John blinked—come to think of it, he had a horrible view, as well, shorter than her as he was. "Of course... here, let's go over here."

He began to edge in past the boys, staring at the ground so that he could make sure not to step on their feet. He had barely made it three paces, however, when there was a rough hand on his shoulder, shoving him backwards—with a yelp, he found himself falling, and would have been on the ground if not for the fingers that suddenly curled around his shirtfront, holding him up.

"Who are you?" a snarling voice demanded. He was faced with dark eyes, slitted with fury, and he felt his throat grow dry, his fingers flexing in the air where Sarah's grip was suddenly absent. Fear laced his throat, though he knew he was surrounded by others, still safe so long as the adults were in the room—yet the adults weren't the first thing that came to his mind. He had never seen a teacher handle a bully so well as his best friend did, and so it was the other boy's name whom his lips formed, a hushed plea for help that he knew couldn't hear him in the crowded room—

_"Sherlock!"_

"Sherlock?" the other boy repeated, those dark eyes suddenly growing quite wide. He was very strong for a kindergartener, and instants later had John standing precariously on his feet, though the clutch on his shirt still didn't vanish. "You're Sherlock?"

"No, I'm—"

But before he could form a proper protest, he was being shouldered aside once more, and then dragged through the crowds—he wondered whether he should scream for help, but it would only make an unnecessary scene, and _someone _was sure to notice the tussle that was emerging as he fought against the other's grasp. Yet there was nothing, and he was only beginning to form a yell in the back of his throat when he was being shoved through a red-and-gold curtain, and found himself in a much more shadowy room, so dark that he could barely see a breath in front of him. His eyes stretched wide, and he heard a soft whimper, muffled under the rush of footsteps as the whole gang of boys filled the room—_Sarah. _It was unmistakably her voice—she was here, then, too; they had trapped her as well—

"See if he's got any ID," one of the boys growled.

"ID?" another responded, voice tight with confusion. "What's—?"

"Ugh, _I'll _check, stupid." Then there were fingers delving in John's shirt pockets, and he felt the bite of Sherlock's card being retrieved. He could do nothing but hold his tongue as the boys fumbled with it under the low illumination of a single near-dead light bulb buzzing overhead; rather than raising a protest, for his hands were still held too tight for him to properly escape, he focused his efforts on searching for Sarah. It didn't take long to target a couple more of her frightened whimpers—she was practically right next to him, and restrained by her own captors. Oh, no, oh, _no—_how had he even gotten into this mess? And why did the boys care so much about Sherlock, anyways?

"Holmes!" one finally declared in a burst of triumph, after nearly a full minute of puzzling over the fine silver letters on the card. "That _must _say Holmes!"

"So it is him!"

"We've got Sherlock Holmes!"

"Who _are _you?" John demanded weakly. "Please, I'm John, this is my friend Sarah—we just want to go..." He felt tears welling in the back of his eyes, even as his mind drew a blazing connection that he couldn't possibly discard. There was only one group he could think of who would have a personal grudge against Sherlock Holmes: unmistakably, those whom he had been tracking. The money thieves. They must have heard something about Sherlock, perhaps even from Soo Lin—it _must _have been Soo Lin, in fact; she had been one of them, and it would be easy enough for them to get information out of her—and now they thought that _John _was Sherlock, and who knew what they were going to do to him? Not to mention Sarah—poor Sarah, none of this was her fault, she didn't even know what was going on—

"You aren't! You're Sherlock Holmes!" one of the boys bellowed. "You're the one who wants to stop us, but you're not gonna! We won't let you! We got to you _first!"_

The tears, hot and wet, finally sprung forth from John's eyes, darting down his cheeks. He shook his head quickly, lips trembling as he fought to force out words. "P-please... we just want to—"

_"Stop right there!"_

The voice was deep for a kindergartener's, impressively articulate, _very _loud—and, best of all, overwhelmingly familiar. Even before the tears had ceased to run, John felt himself smiling, beaming as he turned to gaze upon the figure who had thrust aside the gold and red curtain, filling a quarter of the doorway with his small but imposing silhouette. Before him was a taller figure—not one that John recognized, but he was sure it was one of the adult chaperones.

"These are the boys I told you about, sir," he declared, waving a hand towards the boys, who then quickly let go of John and Sarah, horror eclipsing their features. "As you can see, they're very dangerous, and were just in the act of stealing my friend's credit card."

At the last words, the tallest of the boys—the leader, from what John could tell—dropped the card as if it burned him. Sherlock took a step forward and lifted it delicately, a satisfied smile falling over his features as the teacher proceeded to hurry forth to the boys, sharp words of reprimand and warning falling from his mouth. John barely heard them, though—even Sarah's relieved laughter fell on deaf ears, for all he could do was thank Sherlock, desperately and repeatedly, his chest swelling with euphoria and gratitude.

"You saved us—you _saved _us!"

"It's my job," Sherlock replied, and his thin lips curled into a smirk that John had missed more than he possibly could have realized.


End file.
